Genre Fiction
![Yara Zgheib - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_yara_zgheib.jpg)
No Land to Light On: A Novel
From the author of The Girls at 17 Swann Street comes a "masterful story of tragedy and redemption" (Hala Alyan, author of Salt Houses) "written in soul-searing prose" (BookPage, starred review) about a young Syrian couple in the throes of new love on the cusp of their bright future when a travel ban rips them apart on the eve of their son's premature birth.
Sama and Hadi are a young Syrian couple in love, dreaming of their future in the country that brought them together. Sama came to Boston years before on a prestigious Harvard scholarship; Hadi landed there as a sponsored refugee from a bloody civil war. Now, they are giddily awaiting the birth of their son, a boy whose native language will be freedom and belonging.
When Sama is five months pregnant, Hadi's father dies suddenly, and Hadi decides to fly back to Jordan for the funeral. He leaves America, promising his wife he'll be gone only for a few days. On the date of his return, Sama waits for him at the arrivals gate, but he doesn't appear. As the minutes and then hours pass, she becomes increasingly alarmed, unaware that Hadi has been stopped by US Customs and Border Protection, detained for questioning, and deported.
Achingly intimate yet poignantly universal, No Land to Light On is "a tense, moving novel about the meaning of home, the risks of exile, the power of nations, and the power of love" (Kirkus Reviews).
Sama and Hadi are a young Syrian couple in love, dreaming of their future in the country that brought them together. Sama came to Boston years before on a prestigious Harvard scholarship; Hadi landed there as a sponsored refugee from a bloody civil war. Now, they are giddily awaiting the birth of their son, a boy whose native language will be freedom and belonging.
When Sama is five months pregnant, Hadi's father dies suddenly, and Hadi decides to fly back to Jordan for the funeral. He leaves America, promising his wife he'll be gone only for a few days. On the date of his return, Sama waits for him at the arrivals gate, but he doesn't appear. As the minutes and then hours pass, she becomes increasingly alarmed, unaware that Hadi has been stopped by US Customs and Border Protection, detained for questioning, and deported.
Achingly intimate yet poignantly universal, No Land to Light On is "a tense, moving novel about the meaning of home, the risks of exile, the power of nations, and the power of love" (Kirkus Reviews).
Editorial Reviews
"Zgheib writes so lyrically about rootlessness, separation and a fierce longing for home that it makes the tragedy of war that much easier to bear. Sama and Hadi will always hold a special place in my heart." -- Alka Joshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Henna Artist and The Secret Keeper of Jaipur
"A masterful story of tragedy and redemption, an entire history told through the prism of a single Syrian couple, beginning and ending with love." -- Hala Alyan, award-winning author of Salt Houses and The Arsonists' City
"In elegant prose, Zgheib skillfully mingles her protagonists' memories with a nail-biting account of their 2017 ordeal to craft a narrative rich in metaphors and complex, believable characters." ― The Washington Post
"Written in soul-searing prose, No Land to Light On is an essential, compassionate story." ― BookPage (starred)
"Zgheib's prose is sensory, piquant with the scent of spices even as it captures the sorrow of living in exile while war destroys your homeland. But the novel's real power is in humanizing the cruelties and injustices visited on migrants caught up in the travel ban." ― Library Journal (starred)
"Zgheib has created a tense, moving novel about the meaning of home, the risks of exile, the power of nations, and the power of love." ― Kirkus Reviews
"Readers will enjoy Zgheib's story of hope and perseverance." ― Publishers Weekly
"With raw emotion and aching clarity, Zgheib depicts a family trying to make its way back to each other as powers beyond their control shift their lives like gale force winds." ― Newsweek
"A masterful story of tragedy and redemption, an entire history told through the prism of a single Syrian couple, beginning and ending with love." -- Hala Alyan, award-winning author of Salt Houses and The Arsonists' City
"In elegant prose, Zgheib skillfully mingles her protagonists' memories with a nail-biting account of their 2017 ordeal to craft a narrative rich in metaphors and complex, believable characters." ― The Washington Post
"Written in soul-searing prose, No Land to Light On is an essential, compassionate story." ― BookPage (starred)
"Zgheib's prose is sensory, piquant with the scent of spices even as it captures the sorrow of living in exile while war destroys your homeland. But the novel's real power is in humanizing the cruelties and injustices visited on migrants caught up in the travel ban." ― Library Journal (starred)
"Zgheib has created a tense, moving novel about the meaning of home, the risks of exile, the power of nations, and the power of love." ― Kirkus Reviews
"Readers will enjoy Zgheib's story of hope and perseverance." ― Publishers Weekly
"With raw emotion and aching clarity, Zgheib depicts a family trying to make its way back to each other as powers beyond their control shift their lives like gale force winds." ― Newsweek
Readers Top Reviews
Carla the ReaderT
No Land to Light On is a story that is based on what happened to many families and couples when President Trump signed the executive order rescinding visas of people from specific middle eastern countries. Hadi and Sama are a young Syrian couple happily married and expecting their first child. Sama came to Boston years before chasing dreams of a bigger life; Hadi landed there as a sponsored refugee from a bloody civil war. When Sama is five months pregnant, Hadi’s father dies suddenly in Jordan, the night before his visa appointment at the embassy. Hadi flies back for the funeral, promising his wife that he’ll only be gone for a few days. On the day his flight is due to arrive in Boston, Hadi is stopped at the border and detained for questioning, stripped of his visa, he is sent back to Jordan. Sama delivers their premature baby and waits to find out what has happened to Hadi. As they try to find a way back together, hope becomes disillusionment, and the life they dreamed falls apart. This was a heartbreaking story. To find freedom and happiness to have it snatched away due to the country you were born in and no other reason is unfathomable to me. I found this to be a beautifully written story and I was quickly immersed into their plight. This story made me so much more aware of the result of decisions made and how they affected actual people. The story is told from both Hadi's and Sama's POV, which added realism to the book. Some reviewers felt it was disjointed, but I liked learning about their past as well as seeing what the characters were actually facing and how their lives has become disjointed. If you enjoy stories with a multicultural leaning and the problems facing refugees and immigrants, I definitely recommend No Land to Light On.
SLHReenaCarla the
There are stories that should be told and this is one of them , just not by this author. I felt like she was vomiting the story on me in single word sentences, like a cat bringing up a hair ball. To annoying to finish. I hope someone else picks up the ball and makes this story something meaningful.
Jane BrownleySLHR
When Trump put the ban on people from Muslim countries coming to the US, I was outraged.it was just so wrong. Reading this wonderful story by Yara Zgheib brought home to me the plot of so many immigrants. It is profoundly sad to realize how devastating the ban was to so many. I loved the book and recommend it to all book lovers.
Carol G. Koepplin
A beautifully written story that puts your heart with all the refugees looking to feel freedom n a home to call their own...thoughtfully written with so much empathy...
Kelly GottschalkC
In her follow-up novel to The Girls of 17 Swann Street, Zgheib once again shows a deft hand at telling a story simply and yet with powerful and raw emotions. The story itself is completely different, focusing on the romance and forced separation of Sama and Hadi, who immigrated to the United States from Syria. When Hadi goes home for the funeral of his father, his return back to his home with Sama in Boston is abruptly halted by the executive order of President Trump that restricts any passengers arriving from countries perceived to be hotbeds of terrorism - including Syria. To make matters more difficult, the shock and stress of separation leads a pregnant Sama to go into early labor and deliver their son, alone. By focusing both on the arrivals of Sama and Hadi to the United States, and the trauma caused by an action unconcerned with individual consequences for innocent people, Zgheib shows the beauty and joy of experiencing a land of plenty for the first time, where people have food to eat and don't have to worry about bombs and mortars, to the isolation and terror that comes when you are feared and hated because of where you come from. The author also manages to weave in several other elements beautifully - the superiority of people with power, the selflessness and and support from people that Sama and Hadi know that aren't judging them on their origin, religion, language or skin color, but purely on their character. Last but not least, the tie-in to migratory birds shows the restlessness of an immigrant-no longer a person of their own country, but also never belonging to where they end up either. A beautiful and powerful story, and another success for Zgheib!
Short Excerpt Teaser
January 28, 2017: Sama January 28, 2017 SAMA
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"What? No, no, I'm waiting-"
"Sama, I can't come out!"
More shouting on both ends of the line. The shoving behind me. Crescendo. Distinct chanting, pounding: Let-them-go! Let-them-go! The ground shakes with their anger.
"What do you mean you can't come out?"
Another blow in my gut. I double over.
"I don't know! No one's told us anything! They took our passports… it's… What the hell is going on around you?"
"They took your passport?!"
Let-them-in! Let-them-in!
"Sama, the baby!"
I know.
"Is it your travel permit? It can't be!"
"No, they didn't even look at it! Listen-"
But the pounding, this time on your end of the line, drowns the rest.
"… just go home! I'll figure it out and-"
"Hadi? Are you there?"
Another spasm. My awareness crashes back into Arrivals. The crowd in furious waves. Let-them-in! A shove. I lose the phone. The next blow throws me headlong, belly, baby first, to the ground. Instinct buckles my knees; they take the impact.
The mob rages. My memory hears that woman's fingers break, but through blurry patches in my vision, I see the phone and lunge for it. Bursts of fire in my stomach, but I nab it.
Gasps for air and light. I grab someone's jeans.
"Help me, please!"
But my voice is too hoarse, the chorus too loud. I pull, and pull, and pull at those jeans. Then I bite. The foot kicks me in the nose. I yelp but do not let go, crying through my clenched teeth until I am yanked, finally, up, feeling something wet and sticky run down my upper lip. I taste salt.
Surface. White spots of light and cool, cool air.
"Please!"
I sputter, begging the faceless arms that lifted me.
"Please, I'm pregnant!"
The grip tightens. A voice shout...
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"What? No, no, I'm waiting-"
"Sama, I can't come out!"
More shouting on both ends of the line. The shoving behind me. Crescendo. Distinct chanting, pounding: Let-them-go! Let-them-go! The ground shakes with their anger.
"What do you mean you can't come out?"
Another blow in my gut. I double over.
"I don't know! No one's told us anything! They took our passports… it's… What the hell is going on around you?"
"They took your passport?!"
Let-them-in! Let-them-in!
"Sama, the baby!"
I know.
"Is it your travel permit? It can't be!"
"No, they didn't even look at it! Listen-"
But the pounding, this time on your end of the line, drowns the rest.
"… just go home! I'll figure it out and-"
"Hadi? Are you there?"
Another spasm. My awareness crashes back into Arrivals. The crowd in furious waves. Let-them-in! A shove. I lose the phone. The next blow throws me headlong, belly, baby first, to the ground. Instinct buckles my knees; they take the impact.
The mob rages. My memory hears that woman's fingers break, but through blurry patches in my vision, I see the phone and lunge for it. Bursts of fire in my stomach, but I nab it.
Gasps for air and light. I grab someone's jeans.
"Help me, please!"
But my voice is too hoarse, the chorus too loud. I pull, and pull, and pull at those jeans. Then I bite. The foot kicks me in the nose. I yelp but do not let go, crying through my clenched teeth until I am yanked, finally, up, feeling something wet and sticky run down my upper lip. I taste salt.
Surface. White spots of light and cool, cool air.
"Please!"
I sputter, begging the faceless arms that lifted me.
"Please, I'm pregnant!"
The grip tightens. A voice shout...
